The Next Great Paulie Fink: Parts 3–4

We all knew that whatever he answered—Seattle or Chicago or Iowa—Glebus was going to say something like, Well, I don't know how they do it in Seattle/Chicago/Iowa, but here at the Mitchell School we do not place our pencils in our orifices.

I try to imagine what kind of person could possibly get away with wearing that neon PICK A WINNER monstrosity.

In that meeting, I promised to keep you apprised of any new incidents as they unfolded.

While it’s true there’s nothing specifically in the handbook about sandwich-making during class, I’m sure I don’t need to explain why we cannot allow our classrooms to become personal kitchens at students’ whims.

Perhaps I was too specific in my most recent email. My concern is not about sandwiches per se. Today a pizza delivery person appeared outside the window of the sixth-grade math class.

“We talked about how people shared myths as a way of explaining the world, and trying to exert some control over it. But over time, this worldview was challenged by philosophers.”

Fiona slumps down again, dejected. Gabby leans over and pats her arm in sympathy.

No one says anything else, and after a few beats, Mags says, “That, Originals, is the allegory of the cave. It’s a brilliant, beautiful metaphor about unlearning assumptions. It was first described by a Greek philosopher named Plato around 380 BCE.”

“Nah,” muses Timothy. “He came from the stars, and he finally figured out how to get back to his home planet.”

On the count of three, each of them shouts out some type of character—zombie, werewolf, cyborg, pirate, rabid megalodon that can molt like a python, whatever—for the other one to play.

On the count of three, each of them shouts out some type of character—zombie, werewolf, cyborg, pirate, rabid megalodon that can molt like a python, whatever—for the other one to play.

I’ll say this for television: You never have to slog through any boring parts.

I wish I could edit down the endless hours between now and then, compress them all into a single, fast-paced thirty-second montage...

It’s filled with piles and piles of zucchini. Some are pretty crazy-looking: They’re twisted into curlicues, or squat and fat like tomatoes.

Place the zucchini for cooking over by the statue of Zeus. See this ugly one right here? All gnarled? A little bruised? This is what we call a launcher.

I add this to the list of things I’ll tell my friends when I see them. Yes, we launched zucchini with a catapult. I imagine them gathered around me, rapt as I describe life here.

And beneath that:
Renown. Glory. Being remembered.

She tells us that the opposite of kleos is the English word oblivion. “That’s what happened to most people. For every Plato whom we remember today, there are countless others who lived and died and were forgotten entirely.”

Gabby explains the basic premise behind all reality shows, as if we don’t already know: Regular people compete for some title by participating in challenges.

Henry’s watching me carefully. “It’s true you haven’t met him,” he says. “But that means you can be impartial. You should do it.”